


neither savage nor wise

by orphan_account



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Blood Play, M/M, grossness, handjobs, torture mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the moments after tahir javan is assassinated, they collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	neither savage nor wise

**Author's Note:**

> tw for blood play and general grossness.

When Trevor meets Michael’s eyes over the tied down body of Mr. K and tells him to take a drive, he knows Michael will obey. It’s something Trevor has done in the past—when they were young and first running together there were times that Trevor would fill up with so much anger and fear and hatred that he just had to get it out, and that was Michael’s cue to get the fuck away from him. Michael and Dave make their exit, but Trevor feels Steve’s curious gaze on him for the rest of their time in the warehouse together. Steve is exactly the kind of guy he could get along with if he wasn't so Los Santos: all fake tan and fake hair and fake _life_. But they make a productive enough team for the task they're set to, and so he ignores his annoyance with Steve's metrosexual bullshit and instead goes to town on the poor cunt they're "interrogating."

He’s headed in for one last round with the guy (he’s favoring the wrench—there’s no sound more relaxing in the world than the crunch of bone being smashed) but Trevor hits him too hard and he passes out in his seat. Boring. But Steve is hanging up his phone and pocketing it, and the red is starting the ebb out of the corners of Trevor’s vision. They're done here. He inhales. Exhales raggedly. He regains control. 

The guy is out fuckin’ cold. He’ll wake up in a bit, though, and then Trevor will get him the fuck out of here. He enjoys good old-fashioned fun as much as the next redblooded man, but this guy is a victim of a cruel and uncaring government; a government that Trevor happens to be fucking pissed at. He’s wiping his hands on his shirt and returning the wrench to it’s place when he hears the twinky fuck that he’s stuck here with open his twinky fuck mouth. 

“What’s the deal with you and the washed up eighties heartthrob?” Steve’s tone sets Trevor on edge immediately. “Other than you two giving it to each other like it’s going out of style!” Steve pumps his arms crudely, circling around Trevor like he’s trapped him with his wild guess about he and Michael’s history. 

As fucking if. Trevor doesn’t give a damn if the whole entire world knows he’s fucking Michael Townley. He’ll even let them watch. Michael De Santa, on the other hand, is a different problem. They’d only been able to get in a few heated kisses and one eventful dry hump before Michael went and slithered away like the scared little boy he is, gone back into the arms of his shrieking harpy. Trevor is getting sick of waiting patiently for Michael to fuck him like a goddamn adult. Steve has obviously mistaken Trevor’s sexual frustration for some kind of urgent secrecy. The idiot actually thinks he's got him.

Unfortunately for Steve, Trevor clocked him the moment he opened his mouth about Devin Weston. They are not dissimilar men, Steve Haines and Trevor Philips, but that’s a line of thought Trevor doesn’t much care for. He levels Steve with his stare.

“There’s not a ‘deal’ with us.” Trevor’s voice is steady and calm. “Other than the uh,” He gyrates his hips for effect, “y’know, the sodomy, and all that.” Steve is caught off guard by Trevor’s openness for only a second before he switches gears, a nasty grin cutting his features as he speaks.

“Great that his wife doesn’t mind; I heard she’s a real stunner.” He says, smirking and miming Amanda’s fake tits. Trevor snarls.

“Don’t you _dare_ bring her into this.” Amanda is a sore spot that’s off fucking limits. He steps forward and into Steve’s personal space—something he’s very good at. But Steve meets him fearlessly, keeping eye contact as they nearly bump chests. Trevor sneers with animal ferocity. “Weston’s a great fuckin’ ‘tail catcher’, huh? So he’s got some hot little secretary who takes it up the ass better than you ever could, right?” He throws back. Anger flashes in Steve’s eyes, hot and unmistakable. 

“You think you’re a big man, Philips?” Steve spits. Trevor chuckles.

“Why’re you askin’? You insecure about your size, Haines?” He snaps back, groping himself pointedly. Steve’s eyes are dragging over his torso, torn between sizing him up for a fight and sizing him up for a fuck. Energy crackles between them. Trevor decides he doesn’t mind either way. 

Haines isn’t all that bad to look at—a little too pretty for Trevor’s personal taste, but he’ll do in a pinch. A good fight always gives him a stiffy, anyways. Their eyes meet. Steve raises an eyebrow. It’s a challenge.

“Fuck you.” Steve says, eyes blazing. 

“Careful what you wish for, dollface.” Trevor warns, drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his jaw. Steve takes a step forward. Sizing him up for a fuck it is, then.

“Is that a threat?” He demands, his muscles strung tight against the material of his shitty, expensive shirt. Trevor inhales. Haines smells like bullshit cologne and midlife crisis. A predatory grin spreads over his face.

“Oh, it’s a promise.” He growls. Steve has the nerve to smirk. He opens his mouth to speak, but Trevor is faster. He surges forward, wrapping one large, bloodstained hand around the back of Steve’s neck, drawing him in and biting at his mouth. He expects Haines to at least be surprised, but he doesn’t miss a beat. Steve surges forwards and gives as good as he gets, biting and licking and smashing their teeth together in something less like a kiss and more like a fistfight. 

They tumble to the grimy concrete floor, Steve landing squarely on top of Trevor. They break apart, with Haines straddling him, breathlessly calling him filthy, disgusting, an animal, something like that while he grinds their clothed dicks together. Blood is seeping into the back of Trevor’s clothes and clinging to his hair where he lies in it. He pushes up Steve’s shirt, running his hands over the pale skin revealed to him, scratching and digging his nails into his flesh until red tracks give way to pearls of crimson liquid. Steve hisses through clenched teeth and presses his hips down against Trevor’s dick, his hands going to Trevor’s throat. 

“You think you’re running this god damn show, _Trev_?” Steve punctuates every word with a thrust of his hips, but it’s not until he calls Trevor that old pet name with a sneer on his lips that Trevor throws his weight into flipping them. It works, and Steve is caught off guard for just long enough for Trevor to pin him, his legs open with Trevor’s weight resting between his thighs. He swipes a hand over the scratches he made in Steve’s side, lifting his blood-slicked hand to his lips and sucking the digits clean. Steve pants and tightens his grip on Trevor’s shoulders.

“I sure fuckin’ do, sweet cheeks.” Trevor growls, baring his teeth to Steve so that he can see the pink leftovers of his blood in his mouth. Fuck, he’s hard. He thrusts his hips forward with force, relishing the sound of Steve’s pants dragging over the concrete floor beneath them, the sight of dirty, bloody water seeping into his expensive bullshit polo shirt, grit and grime weaving into his bottle blonde hair. Destroying the plastic and beautiful is one of Trevor’s favorite things to do, and destroy Steve Haines he will. 

He’s distracted, and that gives Steve an opening to hit him in the jaw. Hard. His lip splits and blood is pouring down his chin, but he stays steady on top of the Ken doll beneath him, gripping his wrist and holding it above his head so he doesn’t try it again. Instead, he lowers his mouth to Steve’s and bites his lips, pressing his tongue into the other’s mouth with furious passion. Steve kisses him back, but he takes the moment of lowered alertness to roll them over again. 

“You can say his name if you want to—I don’t mind.” Steve snarls sarcastically, taunting Trevor with a dark smile that has him baring his teeth to Trevor like some cornered dog. But Trevor has taken worse taunts in his life, so he gives a vile grin and whines Devin Weston’s name in a parody of Steve’s voice, and earns himself another punch to the mouth for his efforts. But Trevor laughs, undeterred, and bucks his hips up to meet Steve’s clothed erection, drawing a low, long groan from the man above him. 

“That the best you got, dollface?” Trevor hisses, rocking his body upwards and grabbing Steve by the shoulders, flipping them for the final time. He keeps his knees on either side of Steve’s hips as his holds him to the ground, careful to leave him barely enough wiggle room to move. They knock into the tool cabinet that holds the torture weapons as they adjust, throwing the pliers and the wrench to the floor with a loud clatter. Mr. K doesn’t move from where he’s slumped in his chair. 

Trevor goes first for Steve’s zipper and then his own, drawing both of their dicks out of their confines. He rolls forward, brushing them together with one harsh, quick stroke. They both groan, holding each other’s gaze with fierce determination. Trevor lifts his palm to his mouth and spits on it, coating his digits in pinky-clear fluid that’s a mixture of his saliva and both of their blood. Steve wrinkles his nose.

“That’s fucking disgusting.” He snaps, but Trevor takes both of their cocks in his hand and strokes once, long and slow, and Steve moans and thrusts up into the touch. Trevor smirks. 

“Relax, princess. Uncle T’s gonna take _real_ good care of you.” Trevor says, stroking languidly. Steve makes another disgusted face at him, but Trevor ignores it and moves his hips in time with his hand, lowering his mouth to Steve’s ear and nipping at the delicate pale shell. Steve hisses, bucking up to meet Trevor’s hand, his fingers weaving into the thin strands of hair at the base of Trevor’s skull and tugging hard. Trevor bites harder in warning, fisting their cocks rapidly between them. Steve’s breathing is shallow and quick, his face flushed and his eyes dark with his arousal. 

Trevor removes his hand from them briefly, reaching for the puddle of blood next to them to ease his strokes and to consummate the horrors they’d committed here. They’d tortured and likely killed someone, and now they’re fucking in the aftermath. That’s hot as shit, if you ask Trevor. Steve grabs at his wrist lamely, but misses and instead whines pathetically and rolls his hips up again, obviously displeased by the absence of Trevor’s stroking hand.

“Did I already fuck you stupid, pretty boy?” Trevor asks, swirling his fingers in a shallow pool of blood and water and filth. Steve regains some of his wits, his jaw tightening in defiance. 

“Fuck you, you dirty redneck _maniac_.” Steve snaps. Trevor’s first instinct is to kill him, but he wants to get his fucking rocks off, and he’s already halfway there. He may as well finish what he started. So instead, he looms over Steve, taking up his entire field of vision. He smiles like a shark—all of his teeth on display. To Steve’s credit, he doesn’t balk. He stares straight back, his jaw set and his eyes wild, equally challenging. 

Trevor gives a slow, careful roll of his hips, brushing the underside of his cock over Steve’s. Neither of them backs down. Trevor returns his hand, now wet with a red sludge, and takes them both in his palm. Steve moans at the feeling and Trevor does, too, both of them fucking into Trevor’s fist with wild, uneven thrusts. Trevor grins wickedly at Steve again. His thighs are twitching and Steve is panting and sweating—they’re both close. Trevor increases his pace and grits his teeth, holding back his own climax as well as he can. He refuses to give this pretty plastic douche bag the satisfaction of knowing he hadn’t been able to hold back well enough to come last. 

“You’re the fuckin’ maniac, yeah?” Trevor grunts. “I’m crazy as shit, sure, but you? You’re gonna come all over my dirty redneck maniac hand. You get hard on other people doing your _torturing_ ” he punctuates the word with a twist of his hand “for you?” Steve gasps and throws his head back, his whole body trembling under Trevor’s touch. “You like me jerkin’ your cock with his blood? That what gets you going, princess?” Trevor waits, but Steve says nothing. “Fucking answer me when I talk to you!” He says, snapping his hips into Steve’s to get his attention. 

“Goddamn, yes, yes, it is.” He says through gritted teeth, close enough to his orgasm to give in to Trevor’s demands. 

“I killed him and now I’m gonna make you come.” Trevor breathes into Steve’s ear. Steve writhes under him and makes high, desperate noises in the back of his throat, sweating and undone. “Come right now. _Now._ ” Trevor commands. Steve lets out a choked sounding groan and does as he’s told, spilling over Trevor’s slick fingers and on his own stomach. Trevor isn’t far after, pulling back slightly and tugging his cock harshly over the puddle of cooling come on Steve’s stomach. He howls and releases there, too, his legs shaking and his biceps spasming as he spills on Steve’s stomach.

Trevor sits back and catches his breath, shaking his hand to clean it off and wiping the rest of the mixture of blood and dirt and come on his shirt. Steve glares down at his stomach in disgust.

“Give me your shirt.” Steve says, visibly annoyed by Trevor's mess. Trevor is in an accommodating mood, so he peels it off and hands the stained fabric over to Steve, smirking faintly. 

“You’re not too bad in the sack, dollface.” Trevor quips. Steve rolls his eyes. 

“You wanna check on that?” Steve asks, nodding at Mr. K. Trevor doesn’t really need to check: by now, it’s pretty clear that the guy is dead. He’s seen enough corpses in his life to know that his last efforts with the wrench must have been too much for him to handle. The guy had bitten it. 

“Nah. He’s, uh, y’know.” Trevor says, dragging a finger over his “cut here” tattoo and lolling his tongue out of his mouth to get his point across. Steve picks himself up off the ground, straightening his clothes and dusting himself off as he tosses Trevor’s shirt back to him. Trevor doesn’t put it back on. 

“Well, take care of it.” Steve says absently, buttoning his pants. Trevor frowns. He opens his mouth to tell Steve to take care of his own fuckin’ bullshit problems, but Steve is already halfway out the door, making finger pistols in his direction. “Let’s do this again sometime, _stud_.” He tacks on the sarcastic endearment just as he closes the door behind him. Trevor balls his hands into fists.

Fuck Steve Haines. And fuck the government. And _especially_ fuck Michael Townley (or De Fuckface or whatever) for pulling him into this backwards mess. He leaves the corpse where it lies and flips it off on the way out the door for good measure. He’s done getting told what to fucking do.


End file.
